


That Which Disfigures It

by Katbelle



Series: learn me hard, learn me right [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Character Death Fix, Family, Headcanon, I don't really know what this is, I'd tag it as angst but it's not really angst, M/M, Movie/Brick Fusion, Parents & Children, Past Abuse, Scars, Secrets, Sisters, Some of that too, There's a bit of that, This turned out less fluffy and cuddly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They’re cuddling and Javert is tracing Valjean’s scars and then urges him to talk about his sister. Valjean complies then asks Javert about his family and Javert talks to him about his life. All if fine but nothing too violent."</p><p>Less on the cuddling, more on the scars, in reality. Because they both have scars, on the inside and on the outside, and they are rarely pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which Disfigures It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt #74 for the Valvert Fic Exchange on Tumblr. Title taken from Mr. George Byron, apologies again, dear sir.

**That Which Disfigures It**

_What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?_  
_The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear_  
_that which disfigures it_

~***~

Javert liked to touch. It was one of those very first exhilarating discoveries Valjean had made after he had found Javert, all those long months after the barricades, after Cosette's wedding, after the convent where he had almost died but didn't, when he had given up any hope of seeing the man again. Given up the hop that — even if they were to meet once more — it would be anything but himself asking for things that would never be his. He had been wrong. Never before had he been this glad to have been wrong.

And so, Javert liked to touch. For a man who kept to himself as religiously as he did, he was surprisingly physical. The kisses, as inexperienced and clumsy as they were. The hugs, the holding close at night. More often than not Valjean would wake with an armful of a slightly snoring policeman, with Javert's body draped over his so tightly that it seemed the man simply wanted to make it impossible for Valjean to leave. That surprised both of them equally and confused Javert visibly more. He was clearly not used to having any sort of a meaningful connection with another human. He was not used to needing anyone. And it was precisely that, a need. It became obvious rather quick, in the little touches for it was not all a thing reserved for the privacy of Valjean's house. The were other things too, little things, like fingers grasping the hem of his waistcoat, like a hand briefly touching the crook if his arm before falling back to its owner's side, like a gentle touch at the back of his hand. It was a need for reassurance, that he was there, that they were there. That it was not some cruel dream. Valjean could sympathise with that. It was still for many years after leaving Toulon, after meeting the Bishop, that he would wake up and immediately his hands would travel to his ankle, feeling for a chain that wasn't there.

That was the second thing Valjean had discovered: Javert did not balk at the sight or feel of Valjean's scars. That meant more than Valjean was able to put into words; he had spent many years hiding his scars, first in Montreuil, then from Cosette. Now his daughter knew everything, has seen every lash mark left on his skin, and she blanched and flinched and cried upon them. She knew, but she did not understand, and knowing and understanding were different things altogether. Javert understood; he knew of every scar and he understood what they stood for, and he never once asked Valjean to cover them. He could have, and Valjean would have done as he wished — he did not wish for Javert to reflect on putting some of them on his back himself. Toulon was one of the things they never spoke of, having decided to silently agree to disagree in order to avoid heated arguments that would surely erupt and spiral out of control. He did not wish to bring up those days, and if hiding once more was to be the price of keeping Javert with him, he would pay it. He was good at hiding.

There was no need for that. Javert touched his scars the same way he touched any other part of him, with reverence and focus. During the day, he would sometimes take Valjean's hands and rub circles with his thumbs over the scars on Valjean's wrists; at night, he would trace every raised ridge with his clever, clever fingers and an unreadable expression etched on his face. He would never say much, for the marks spoke for themselves — they spoke of nineteen years in hell and they spoke of the strength needed to survive it.

Javert, of course, had scars of his own. That Valjean did not notice the first — considering that the first time they were intimate was that one singular time in Montreuil, but that was angry and dishonest, and Valjean was not proud of that — nor the second time. The third time, he did. The third time, there was no rush, no anger to make them tear at each other's clothing. They undressed one another in broad daylight in the master bedroom of the maisonette, and Valjean allowed himself to take his time, allowed his hands to roam over Javert's body, to try to trace any imperfections. And trace them he did, barely had he laid his hand on Javert's back, he found a patch of uneven skin. He frowned, he spun the man around to look at his back and he recoiled, like Cosette had when he showed her his own marks. Only this was worse.

"You are awfully quiet today," Javert murmured, pulling Valjean away from his thoughts. It was not even winter yet on the outside, merely late autumn, but the nights were very cold; there was a fire cracking in the fireplace of their bedroom, however, and the room was pleasantly warm. They were lounging in bed, naked, sweaty and dirty but sated. As usual, Javert's fingers were dancing a pattern on Valjean's back, tapping at points, trying to smoothen the raised edges. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing in particular," Valjean replied.

He could not very well say that, as he did so many times now, he wondered at what stories the marks on Javert's skin were telling. Valjean's scars were — in Javert's own words — a map of lines and ridges, criss-crossing, interesting but predictable. Javert's were--not. Some of them had been acquired at work, which was unavoidable in Javert's particular profession. There were a few wounds with uneven ridges, made by knives thrust blindly, with aim no other than to hurt; cuts that clearly were infected at some point, that were not treated properly and thus healed ugly, into thick purple lines. There were at least three bullet wounds, puckered and raised, one of which was too close to the man's heart for Valjean's liking. Those were the marks that told of Javert's work more than the man would want to disclose. They confirmed what Valjean once had read in a letter with which Javert arrived in Montreuil — that he was a fine officer, that he was brave, but he was brave to the point of recklessness. But those too, like the marks on Valjean's skin, were predictable. It were the others that made Valjean's blood run cold. 

On Javert's back, running from his right shoulder blade down, there was a long patch of ragged skin that initially shocked him so. The skin there was lumpy, rough and withered here, smooth-tight-stretched there, ragged around the swells and dips of it at the same time, shiny and discoloured and _ugly_ , like molten wax, spilled and frozen in a misshapen form. What it looked like was a wide burn mark. Horrific. Cosette had once burned her hand with hot water and Valjean clearly remembered her crying the whole night; he could only imagine — or perhaps he could not — what pain a wound that healed into such a scar would have caused. And yet it was not it that had caused Valjean to eventually ask questions that had sent Javert running. The questions, the marks, that had been their first proper fight, that had made Javert bat his hands away, made him dress in stone-cold silence and leave Valjean, Valjean's house. He avoided him for the rest of the week.

"You have a scar close to your spine," Javert said and ran a finger down it, either to emphasis his point or to draw Valjean's attention. "It is not a whip mark; if anything, it looks like it was made by a belt buckle. It looks old."

Smooth and old. Small and shallow and old. Crisp and clean. Javert's thighs and hips were marred with such scars, tiny, horizontal cuts that were barely noticeable at first but impossible to ignore once you knew of them. For all the dangers that surely must have come with the knife wounds and the bullet wounds, even the wound running down his shoulder, it was these that were the scariest. They were small, they were smooth, even lines; they were entirely too precise to be accidental and thus had to have been purposefully made. _Someone_ must have made them on purpose.

"It is a mark of my sister," Valjean said, at the same time wondering if he would ever be able to ask about those tiny clear cuts. Unlikely. "That was the only time she had ever hit me."

The memory was bittersweet, both pleasant and not at the same time. He was a mere child still when it happened, and Jeannette was not yet courted by her future husband. Why did she hit him? He had--he had broken something. A pot? A cup? He did not remember. Jeanne hit him with their father's old belt and lectured him, and he ran. She chased him across the field close to their little house. A field. A field? No? A meadow perhaps. Was there a meadow by their house? No, surely not, it had to have been a field. She chased him and they laughed. They walked back home through the field together, holding hands.

Perhaps it was a meadow. It did not matter, he supposed.

"Tell me about you sister," Javert asked.

Valjean sighed. He turned over onto his back, rose and propped himself against the headboard, finally able to see Javert. There was a look of a guarded curiosity etched onto his face, he was sitting on the bed with one leg bent and an arm wrapped around the knee. To Valjean he was beautiful, in the way one's beloved always is, despite all their flaws and imperfections.

"There isn't much to tell," Valjean said. It was a long time since he last thought about his sister and a longer still since he had any news of her or her children. "She was older than me," he said, straining to remember her face. She had hazel eyes and curly hair, like most of her children, like he himself, but all the finer details escaped him long ago. He did not remember the shape of her eyes or the slope of her nose or the curve of her lips when she smiled, if she smiled. She could pass him on the street and he would be unable to recognize her. "She had a nickname for me, but I don't remember what it was. She had seven children, four girls and three boys. She liked raspberries. I disliked her husband and he disliked me in return."

"How could anyone dislike you, I wonder," Javer said in a dead-serious tone, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards so Valjean knew he was teasing. He was joking, or at least was trying to.

"I was not always the man I am today," Valjean replied with a smile of his own. "I was much less likable then." He frowned. "But Pierre liked me anyway. Pierre liked me the best."

"Pierre--?"

"Jeannette's youngest son. He was always sickly, and still a baby when I saw him last, but he liked me best. He never cried when I held him."

"Pierre was the one you stole that bread for," Javert said and it sounded more like a statement than like a question. He was not being reproachful, he was merely ascertaining the facts.

Valjean cocked his head to the side and nodded slowly in affirmation. "Yes," he said, "there was never much in the house, Jeanne and I, we tried, but there was never much. And with seven children..."

He trailed off and looked to the closed balcony door. The curtains were closed — even though their bedroom was on the first floor, even though their windows faced the garden and the orchard and it was highly unlikely that anyone would peek in — but the moon suspended high above on the sky was still visible through them. It was a beautiful, cloudless night; Javert always said those were the coldest around here.

"Marie was the oldest," Valjean took up his tale after a while spent in silence, "and she tried to help as much as she could. She was so smart, my Marie. She once brought home a puppy she desperately wanted to keep. Jeanne was not happy and we could not afford a dog." 

"I used to have a puppy," Javert interposed quite suddenly, surprising Valjean. He wanted to ask about it, perhaps there was something Javert wished to say, but Javert shook his head slightly and waved his hand, motioning him to continue.

Valjean raised and hand and extended two fingers, counting out, "Then there were Agnes and Anne, the twins, I was never quite able to tell them apart." He wondered if the girls ever grew up to look different from one another or if they continued to bear an uncanny resemblance to their adulthood. He wondered if they had a chance to grow up at all. He wondered if Marie ever got a chance to have that puppy or if that was yet another little dream stolen and crushed by life. "And then--"

He faltered. Marie, Agnes and Anne, Pierre... He was missing three names. There were still three names he could not recall. That happened a lot to him. Sometimes he remembered a face and could not place a name, sometimes he remembered a name and could not place a face, sometimes he remembered neither, sometimes he remembered wrong, sometimes--

He remembered the life in Faverolles as if he were looking through a fog, the memories were hazy and often he could not muster up any feelings to go with images. Some things felt as if they happened to someone else, someone not _him_ , as if those were the memories of another person, another person's life. Sometimes he felt as if he had only read about Jean Valjean's life prior to Toulon, as if he did not live it at all. 

"And then Jeanne and Mathieu and Luc," Javert finished in a quiet voice, with a carefully blank face and eyes fixed on a wall above Valjean's head. He was actively avoiding Valjean's gaze.

That would not do. Valjean leaned forward and put a hand on Javert's naked — scarred — thigh, squeezed to draw the man's attention and, once he got it, he did not remove his hand in order to ground him in the here and now.

"How do you know that?" Valjean asked. He tested the names, repeated them in his thoughts once and over again. They sounded--good. They sounded right. Jeanne, Mathieu and Luc. He could _almost_ picture Luc's — second-youngest's, ungodly freckled — animated and happy face, _almost_ hear Jeanne's voice when she called him over to sit next to her by the table. And Mathieu, dear God — somber and grumpy, and Jeannette always said he was most like his uncle. 

Javert swallowed. "After you escaped from M-sur-M and disappeared," he said, "I investigated. I followed your own inquiries, tried to learn what you might have found out in your own private investigation. There was always a--"

Javert stopped. He shrugged.

"You thought I might have sought help with my sister's children?" Valjean asked incredulously. Javert shrugged again. It seemed ridiculous at first; then again, those children were his family, if only by blood now — it stood to reason that he might seek shelter or help with them, it was not such a far-fetched assumption and not a possibility a policeman as meticulous as Javert could just wave off.

"That was a possibility, yes," Javert admitted, now with his eyes downcast. Valjean squeezed his thigh again and Javert's head snapped up, he glared at Valjean in annoyance. "You did ask around about them while you were the mayor."

"I did, but there was nothing to learn." That knowledge sat heavily with him. Not even the money helped him learn anything of his sister's or the children's fate. No one knew anything beyond what Valjean heard back in Toulon, that Jeannette had taken Pierre and left for Paris. There was nothing more, not even a whisper or a rumour that could have been traced and hunted down. He had resigned himself to never knowing their fates a long time ago.

"Well," Javert said and licked his lips, perhaps to distract Valjean from noticing the red blush that was beginning to show high on his cheeks, "the police is a mite more resourceful than that."

He looked slightly embarrassed saying that, but there was a hint of pride in his voice nonetheless; it was easy to hear, it made Javert speak clearer, masked the faint Southern lilt of his voice and the drag of vowels. 

Valjean lifted his hand off Javert's thigh and dropped it on the coverlet, twisted it in his fist. "What do you mean?"

"It took time and skill but I--" Javert seemed to change his mind about what he was about to say for he continued with, "Well, I made some inquiries of my own. The oldest boy--"

"That would be Mathieu," Valjean supplied.

"--he took the twin girls and settled in Évreux. One of the girls married a local rabbi's son, I have been told. The youngest girl appears to have become a nun. And the youngest boy lived in Paris. He was a tailor. A quite decent one, I have heard. Nothing about the other three, however." Javert's eyes, so far fixed on Valjean's clenched fist on the coverlet, flickered up and their gazes met. Valjean did not know what Javert read in his own expression, but the man grimaced as if pained. "Forgive me, I should not have--"

"No," Valjean interrupted what would no doubt be an apology for bringing up a painful subject. It was not painful anymore, it was years too late to stir any emotion other than mild sadness. One could not be heartbroken over what one barely remembered. Valjean asked himself why Javert had never told him before of his findings about Valjean's family, then asked himself why wasn't he angry about it. In his mind he heard the answer to the first question in Javert's deep voice, as if it was said by him: he would not think it mattered. He would not think that scraps of information from twenty years ago would matter to Valjean.

But they did, those scraps of information from twenty years ago meant that they lived, the children, at least some of them. They lived, his actions did not damn them entirely. Valjean reached and gripped Javert's hand, brought it to his lips. "Thank you," he breathed.

Javert only nodded, dazed. Valjean did not let go of his hand; he clasped it firmer, moved his thumb to rest on the pulse point in the wrist, caressed the delicate skin there. "Now that you know all I had to tell about my sister... Tell me about _your_ family."

"No," was the stern and cold reply. Javert snatched his hand from Valjean's grip.

"Javert--"

" _No_."

"I have told you about mine. It is only fair that you should tell me about yours."

"No." Valjean went to protest, but Javert was not finished yet, "There is nothing I wish to tell you."

"There are many things I wish to hear, however. You are the one person who knows me better than anyone, better than Cosette, perhaps better than I know myself. I wish to know you too." Valjean tried to bring their hands together once more, he bumped their knuckles, intending to drag his fingers over the back of Javert's hand. Javert snatched it away once more. "Do we keep secrets from each other?"

"Yes," Javert blurted out and put his hand behind his back, far from Valjean's reach. Javert liked to touch and if _he_ was withdrawing, it was a sign to stop. That was yet another thing Valjean discovered. He paid for that knowledge dearly, for before he gained it, he overstepped this imaginary boundary. The consequences were--unpleasant. Still, the word and the action stung.

His expression must have been truly wounded for Javert closed his eyes against it and sighed in defeat, "Three questions, Valjean. You can ask me three questions."

Valjean's eyes immediately darted to the thin scars on Javert's thigh. But no. That was one question Javert would not appreciate, yet one more secret he would not share. Valjean's forefinger traced one of the lines and Javert shuddered, his shoulders hunched, the whole posture tightened as if in readiness to jump and bolt.

"Tell me about your mother," he said instead and Javert visibly relaxed. That warmed Valjean's heart. He did not like him so tense. "What was she like?"

Once, many years ago, Javert had told him he was born in prison. Valjean sometimes tried to imagine a woman who would give birth to a man like Javert. Was she tall, like her son? Did she share his blue eyes? Was the soft brown hair that was beginning to grow out of its usual cut something her son took after her? Why was she even imprisoned? Was she wicked? No, surely not. Valjean could not picture Javert's mother as wicked. There was kindness in Javert, well hidden and sometimes misunderstood, but it was there to find. He liked to think that Javert's mother was kind.

"She was--beautiful, like a marble statue," Javert said slowly. "Perfect but in a cold way. She was not unkind but she didn't love me. Sometimes I doubt she had the capacity to love anyone." Javert ran a hand over his face tiredly. "I don't know, she died when I was still young."

"And your father?"

"I never knew him. He was in the galleys, in Toulon, but I was given the impression that he was no longer there when I began working."

And it was not because he had died, Valjean concluded from the wry twist of Javert's lips. So he must have escaped, was most likely never caught. That wasn't common but it was not unheard of. Valjean wondered if any of the stories he had heard spoken between the convicts in hushed, awed voices were of Javert's father. Perhaps some of them were. He shuddered. None were good stories, none were kind.

"Who took care of you after your mother died then?"

At least he had his sister. They were poor and it was far from perfect, but they were content, they loved one another, they took care of one another. Jeannette was there to share his sorrows and kiss his forehead and scold him when needed, to chase him across a field and laugh. Javert had no siblings, he had no Jeanne to make everything less miserable than it truly was.

"The director of the prison I was born in took guardianship over me," Javert explained. He smiled sourly. "I believe he felt _obliged_."

"Obliged by what?" Valjean asked.

Javert opened his eyes and looked directly at Valjean, he tsked. "You already used your three questions," he said and a hint of smugness was back in his voice. Oh, _oh_. Of course. He was giving vague responses on purpose so that Valjean would have to inquire for details. That was well played.

"I wish you were honest with me," Valjean murmured. It was frustrating and tiring and it tried his patience, dealing with Javert. The man was painfully, sometimes almost shockingly, honest and yet so secretive. It was difficult to reconcile the two.

"I have always been honest with you," Javert grumbled and laid down on the bed, with his back to Valjean. He was offended by the implication. Perhaps he had the right to be; not saying anything was not equal to lying about it, after all.

"Then I wish you would not omit anything while being honest."

Javert laughed dryly. "You do not wish that. Trust me at least in this."

Valjean could not resists the urge to roll his eyes, even if Javert was facing away from him and the gesture would have no effect. "What is there that could be so bad you do not think I'd want to know?"

"That is for me to know and for you to never find out."

Valjean huffed in annoyance. He extinguished the candle on the bedside table next to him and laid down with his arms crossed under his head. He looked at the ceiling, dimly illuminated in the moonlight, and listened to Javert breathing. It was not the even breathing of a man asleep; Javert was awake, just lying in the dark, unable to find sleep, alike Valjean.

"There was a fire," Valjean heard Javert murmur into his pillow. "The scar on my back, that's how I got it. My shirt caught fire. I escaped, my mother did not. Neither did my dog."

Valjean inhaled sharply. So it _was_ a burn mark. A shirt on fire... He shuddered. It was a miracle Javert escaped with just a scar on his back. He could have--He might have--Valjean took a shuddering breath. He thanked God for keeping Javert safe that day. He turned to his side and pressed himself closer to Javert's back, bent his head and pressed a kiss to the rough skin. He wondered if Javert's mother helped him get away; if she gave her life to save her son's, he supposed he should thank her as well. He was already grateful enough.

"I am sorry," he mouthed in the skin of Javert's neck. "Em' tchiote berbi."

"Don't be. It is not worth it, pitying the dead," Javert replied and his tone still carried a hint of coldness. "What does it mean? 'Tchiote berbi'?"

"That's Picard. That is what my sister called me. 'My little sheep', for I had curly hair. I remembered." Valjean ran a hand over the scars on Javert's thigh and asked, "Will you tell me about the others...?" 

"No."

"Perhaps one day," he said hopefully and put an arm over Javert's form, rested his palm over Javert's heart. The man did not return his embrace and that was the clearest 'never' Valjean has ever received.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to thank the criminology society for helping me with describing burn scars and all matters of disfigurements. You rock, guys, you and your corpses in the morgue. As for infected wounds healing ugly - my mother recently had a surgical procedure and the wound was ugly and got slightly infected, and even though it was later treated, it still healed awfully. It's butt-ugly and very thick and purple, and overall horrible.


End file.
